


Reflection

by Becky_Tailweaver



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Continuation AU, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14408133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Tailweaver/pseuds/Becky_Tailweaver
Summary: Becoming a musician is only one of Miguel's many big goals, and he's already succeeding in a lot of them.  There's one dream, however—one of his most precious, secret dreams—that he's failed to achieve.





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a "short" fic that is independent of any other AU I've worked on. It should stand on its own, though it does borrow a couple of concepts. It's a _What If_ based on/in tribute to many of the thoughts discussed in [This Post](https://beckytailweaver.tumblr.com/post/170728106964/white-throated-packrat-wee-chlo), as well as the artwork in [This Reblog](https://the-skull-guitar.tumblr.com/post/170662047915/wee-chlo-lilygrants-wee-chlo-i-know-the).
> 
> I'm dedicating this little story to everyone who was involved in planting the seed and shaping the idea. Thank you all for letting me add my two cents!

Late in the evening of Día de Los Muertos, after he was certain everyone else was in bed asleep, Miguel crept back down to the family ofrenda room, his great-great grandfather's white guitar in one hand, his notebook in the other.

The candles on the ofrenda had been put out for the night, for safety, but there was one small electric lamp on an end table near the door, and when he switched it on the aging bulb cast the room in a dim, faded yellow light that was almost as warm. He stepped across the room to the ofrenda, smiling fondly at the rows of photos spread upon it. Mamá Coco's photo especially; his great-grandma's eyes always seemed to twinkle knowingly, just as they had in his earliest memories of her.

Taking a deep breath, he laid his notebook on the table and set the white guitar down reverently, carefully leaning it against the front of the ofrenda table. Standing to one side of the instrument, he waited with bated breath as he always did, holding himself still, listening for the slightest whisper.

A few moments later, there was a flicker of orange-gold light from the corner of his eye, and his tense anticipation was rewarded: A wide grin and outstretched skeletal arms.

"Oye, Chamaco!"

"Papá Héctor!" Miguel threw himself into those arms and hugged tight enough to hear bones creak.

"Easy now, easy! Leave me a few unbroken bones!" Héctor laughed, though he was hugging just as much.

"I _missed_ you," Miguel insisted, pressing his face into the soft, worn purple fabric on his grandfather's shoulder.

Bony hands patted his back. "Yeah, I missed you too, mijo. A year always seems too long."

"I wish there was another way you could visit more..."

"Eh, me too, but y'know what? I get to visit at all, so I'm not gonna complain too much."

"You're right." They drew back to look at each other, Miguel wiping quickly at his eyes. "I'm so glad I get to see you, no matter how."

Miguel didn't like to think much about how he'd felt the first two years after that fateful Día de Muertos, when he'd managed to rescue Mamá Coco's memory of her papá by a thread of song and love, but had no way of knowing—except for blind, desperate, childish _hope_ —that he'd saved Héctor's existence in time. Miguel _believed_ he had succeeded, but there was always a sad, dark seed of doubt in the back of his mind, bearing the fear that he would one day pass into the Land of the Dead as an old man and Papá Héctor—his family, his inspiration, his best friend—wouldn't be there waiting for him.

Then there was the Día de Muertos when Miguel was fourteen, and he'd come into the ofrenda room after the meal and the celebration to wind down and talk to his deceased relatives, whether or not they were actually present. He'd rested his guitar against the ofrenda without a second thought, and in the next moment heard Héctor's voice as clear as his own, just next to him.

When they'd gotten over the joy and the shock, they'd discovered that once again their guitar was to blame: Héctor had been poking around in the ofrenda room before Miguel arrived, and Miguel had unknowingly placed his half of the guitar exactly where Héctor had rested his own. Somehow, during the slim window of the Day of the Dead, the reunited guitar allowed their worlds to overlap. They'd spent the rest of the night, almost into sunrise—when Héctor had to _run_ to get back to the cemetery and the Bridge in time—talking and singing and laughing together, interspersed with hugs and tears.

It only worked near the ofrenda, only when the two "halves" of the guitar were precisely placed, and only for Miguel and Héctor. The living family members remained as blind to Héctor's presence as ever, and when other members of the deceased family came in to see what the commotion was, Miguel could not see or hear them either. Héctor was a willing "translator," however, especially when Mamá Coco wanted to tell her boy how much he was loved. The tradition persisted from then on, Miguel staying up late and Héctor staying extra long for the opportunity to spend time together again.

"Did you like my song this year?" Miguel asked, when his grin was clear again.

"Absolutely! It was incredible!" Héctor gushed, throwing his arms wide. "Such a beat! Imelda and I were out of breath from dancing!"

"No manches! You guys don't have lungs, how can you be out of breath?"

"Hey, skeletons can get tired too!" Héctor huffed with entirely fake indignation. "Show some respect for your elders, chamaquito!"

"I'm not so little any more, Papá Héctor," Miguel snorted, drawing himself up. He was almost eye to eye with his grandfather.

"Yeah...not so little." Héctor smiled, warm and genuine and nostalgic. "Seventeen, eh! You're gonna be taller than your papá and me both if you keep this up."

Miguel smiled gamely too, though he couldn't help the wince. "At least I got your height. That's something, right?"

"...Miguel?" Papá Héctor must've seen something in his expression; they knew each other too well somehow, even if their time together over the years had been less than the days in a week. Héctor looked concerned, setting a gentle hand on his grandson's shoulder.

Miguel had to look away, but then his eyes caught on the photo at the very top of the ofrenda, and two faces that had become so important to him. His throat tightened and his grandfather's kind warmth seemed to burn, so he turned away, striding to the old bench on the far side of the room to seat himself heavily.

Héctor followed him quietly, and sat beside him. His ghostly weight didn't even make the dry wood creak. After several moments, he spoke. "Mijo, what's up?"

Elbows on knees, unable to look up, it took Miguel a minute to talk. It felt shameful, the things he was torn up over—they felt like ungrateful, selfish, childish things. He knew his Papá Héctor would never mock him, but he feared the disappointment.

"You know, I wanted to grow up to be just like you," he confessed at last, staring at the floor. "After I knew the truth about you...it's still true, I wanted to be just like that músico in the photo. My great-great-grandpa."

"Hey, hey, you're a great musician!" Héctor told him, patting his back in reassurance. "I'm _so proud_ of your songs every single year. And I love that you leave me sheet music in my offerings. I get to bring a little bit of you with me when we're apart, and it's so much _fun_ to play your songs for the family all year 'round. Everyone loves it!"

Miguel's vision blurred. "I wanted to be like you. I wanted people to be able to look at me and see you. 'See, this man is my grandfather—this man who has so much talent, who wrote these amazing songs. Look at me and remember him.' I felt like...I could help keep the memory of you alive if I looked like...if I just..."

Héctor was staring at him, stunned.

"When I started to get taller, when my voice started changing," Miguel pressed on, trying not let himself cry; he was too old for crying, and growing up with the wrong face wasn't something that could be undone by a few tears. "I kept looking in the mirror, trying to find you. But I never... It wasn't you I saw."

Miguel had known from early on that he had Mamá Imelda's cheekbones—Héctor had been sure to proudly tell him that. And he still had a little bit of Abuelito Franco about his nose. But the resemblance to a young Papá Julio had faded considerably as he grew and his features started to sharpen out of childhood. As the months and years went by, the face that he started to see echoed in the mirror to a startling degree was not Héctor's—it was _Imelda's_.

His features were a little more angular and his eyes rounder, but the resemblance to the young woman in the ofrenda photo was striking and clear, especially when he wasn't smiling. It wasn't every generation a Rivera took so strongly after one ancestor or another. But to Miguel's consternation and disappointment, it wasn't the face he had so wanted to grow into.

"Hey, hey, hey..." Héctor pulled him against his bony side in another hug, as gently understanding as ever. "You don't have to look _exactly_ like me. You'll always be my boy—I love you no matter who you take after. And come on, I wouldn't wish my nose on _anybody_."

Miguel couldn't help the little snort of laughter.

"I wouldn't wish my ears on anybody either," Héctor went on, almost cheerful, "but guess what! You got those anyway—one hundred percent Rivera elephant ears. You definitely got my _musical_ ear too, Chamaco. I can tell; we both cringe when Abel pulls a bad note out of his accordion."

Miguel managed another little laugh. "Or Rosa squawks her violin..."

"Or somebody turns the junior twins loose with recorders," Héctor added, and they both shuddered before Héctor grinned. "See! You _do_ take after me."

"But..."

"I can't come to a _single_ Día de Muertos without Coco reminding me that you have my grin," his grandfather went on proudly, keeping his arm around Miguel's slumped shoulders. "She tells me she knew it from when you were a tiny baby, that you'd be just like me. From the very moment you smiled when she sang to you. Just by being born, you were helping her keep my memory alive."

"R-really?"

"Absolutely. Grandpa's honor, mijo." The hand around his shoulder squeezed reassuringly. "You and Enrique both got my long legs and knobby knees. Victoria did too, and she'll never forgive me for it. But it helps you run from La Chancla faster, yes?"

Miguel's lips quirked into a tiny smile. "As long as I get a head start."

"And from the look of things..." Héctor leaned forward a little and tapped his Rivera shoe-clad toes. "You've got my paddle feet too. I apologize for that, it can make dancing with a partner a challenge."

Miguel leaned forward too, his well-trained eye noting in surprise that he wore the same size shoe as his grandfather.

"I think your voice sounds a lot more like mine now, eh?" Héctor went on, nudging him cheerfully. "Imelda and Coco both say they can hardly tell which of us is singing, sometimes. They tell me you're starting to sound better than me, but I think they're biased."

Miguel tried not to giggle, but failed when Héctor winked at him.

"And when I hear you play our guitar, sometimes it's something completely new I've never tried, and you surprise me all over again! And other times you play something just like I would've done, and I think, 'That's my boy!' Our guitar fits us just right too. Know why? Look..."

Héctor held up a hand encouragingly, almost as if he was offering a high five. Miguel hesitated, then reached up to place his hand against the skeletal one. The width of their palms and the spread of their long fingers matched perfectly.

"She knows us by our hands," Héctor said, soft and sincere. "And she _sings_ for you. It's hard to describe how proud I feel when I hear you play my music, mijo. And there aren't words _big enough_ for how I feel when I hear you play _yours_."

Miguel was tearing up again as their hands dropped, but this time it wasn't from disappointment.

"I see _plenty_ of me in you, mijo." Héctor was smiling like he'd never stop. "Probably more than is healthy. You know how much trouble I can get into. Every Día de Muertos your grandmas and aunts all gather 'round with the living Rivera ladies for all the latest gossip, and there's _always_ talk of Miguel's mischief..."

Miguel blushed and groaned and leaned his face into his grandfather's shoulder.

Héctor just laughed. "And every time, there's Imelda throwing up her hands and looking like she wants to throw a shoe at me, 'Ay, Dios mío, another thing again! He's just like you, this is all _your_ fault!'"

The imitation of Imelda's inflections was spot-on and Miguel couldn't help snickering. "I'm not _that_ bad."

"I don't think I am either, but an entire hacienda of Riveras probably aren't wrong." His grandfather squeezed his shoulder again, his voice hiding a note that trembled with emotion. "I don't mind hearing it again and again, mijo. I think I could burst, every time someone says you're just like me. You're my Chamaco, and I'm _so_ proud of you."

Miguel stayed where he was, leaning on a bony shoulder that somehow seemed so warm and solid. "Gracias, Papá Héctor. I'm proud you're my grandpa too. I just...didn't want to disappoint you."

"Hey, none of that nonsense talk!" Héctor drew away enough to turn and look Miguel in the eye, serious. "Didn't I just get done telling you? Who you look like isn't gonna disappoint me. In fact, do you know what I wished for when I was your age?"

Miguel gulped and shook his head, startled at the stern turn of the conversation. It wasn't often his great-great-grandfather would talk about his early life or marriage, and when he did Miguel knew it was serious.

"I was married to the most beautiful woman in the world," Héctor told him, not breaking his gaze, "and what I dreamed of was a house full of babies who looked _just like her_ , as many as she wanted to give me. I wanted to make a family with the woman I love, because I'd never had the chance for a family before."

Héctor's expression softened again, hands coming up to gently cup his grandson's face. "And _you_ , mijo, are a child who looks _just like her_. You're...a dream come to life, just like Coco. When I look at you, I see a reflection of one of the most precious people in my world. I'm so proud that you're like me in so many ways. But I _love_ that you look just like your Mamá Imelda."

Bony thumbs softly brushed away the tears on Miguel's cheeks. "I love how much you're like her. Your looks and your stubborn and your courage and the way you just...fill up the entire space with your presence and your laugh and your music and... _everything_. So don't ever think I'm disappointed in how you turned out. You're the best of my Imelda and me. You're _ours_ , and that's all that matters."

A moment later, Miguel was hugging his grandfather again, clinging tight. Papá Héctor always knew the right things to say to chase away his fears and soothe his doubts. The knot of disappointment and defeat that lingered in his stomach had finally begun to ease with Héctor's adamant acceptance. For the first time in months—maybe more than a year—he didn't feel sad at the thought of looking in a mirror. Maybe he wouldn't see his grandfather in his reflection, as he'd wanted...but he would see someone Héctor loved more than life.

 _Two_ someones.

"Hey, it's okay," Héctor was murmuring, low and soothing, gently rubbing his back. "It's okay. Not so big just yet, eh? Still my Chamaco for a little longer..."

"Always," Miguel insisted thickly, trying not to sniffle aloud. He was too old for crying, and here he was fighting off a tear-fest!

They stayed like that for a while, until Miguel's breaths were steadier and Héctor could let him go with a broad, encouraging grin like it was no matter at all to let a teenager not-cry all over his jacket. "Better?"

Miguel nodded, swiping at his eyes with a shirt sleeve. "I'm sorry...it's such a dumb thing to get upset over..."

"You know what? I'm flattered there's someone who actually _wants_ to look like this homely scarecrow," Héctor chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Not dumb, mijo. Very thoughtful, very kind. But don't worry about it, okay?"

"You're not ugly," Miguel insisted with a frown, "you're _Héctor_."

Jaw dropped, his grandfather stared at him for long moments before his sunburst grin returned with a rush of laughter. "Ahh, you _are_ just like her! Don't ever change, okay?"

"I'll do my best. Gracias, Papá Héctor," Miguel said softly, sincerely. "For everything. You...when you...that you're...it...it means a lot to me."

"Always, mijo." The warmth in his eyes told Miguel that he meant it.

Silly, playful, slippery Papá Héctor fought to keep his promises beyond death.

"So! Now that we've caught up..." Héctor rubbed his hands together eagerly. "I saw you bring your notebook. What've you got to share tonight, Chamaco?"

Miguel slid off the bench to fetch the well-loved notebook. "It's not much. Just some more of the usual sort of songs. But there's one I'm trying to get the bridge to sound right, and it's just not coming out. It's good, but it's just...meh, you know?"

"Okay. You want some help from beyond the grave?" Héctor grinned as his grandson sat back down next to him. "You know I'm going to insist on royalties for ghost writing."

"Oooh, you've been waiting all year to whip that one out, haven't you." Miguel's grin was identical as he opened the notebook. "Here—if you think you're up to it, oh wise elder. Wouldn't want you to strain something."

Héctor cracked his knuckles and sniffed. "Psh! Hold my tequila, niñito, I'll show you how it's done."

Then they were both laughing easily and fondly as Miguel showed his grandfather the difficult point in his new song and Héctor gently nudged and guided and taught, the language of music flowing effortlessly back and forth between them. Together they began to build a bridge of harmony, two dark heads bent together over the shared passion that shaped their bond but could never truly encompass it.

The song came so much easier now that Miguel no longer dreaded his reflection.

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> "Miguel grows up to resemble Imelda" isn't my personal headcanon, but it's fun to play with.


End file.
